Sellers shrugged, scratched one of his sideburns and turned back to the screen in front of him. He was normally jollier than Gibbs. Charlie hadn’t often seen him looking as glum as this. She couldn’t think of anything she’d done that might have upset him, and concluded that he must once again have been disappointed in lust. That women existed who were between the ages of twenty and sixty and didn’t want to have sex with him was an unending source of misery to Sellers. He notched up more rejections in a week than most men do in a lifetime on account of his determination to proposition every female who crossed his path when he wasn’t with his wife, Stacey—in pubs, takeaways, shops, on the street—and practiced infidelity on a scale that made Gibbs and Liv’s affair look as quaint and wholesome as a chaste Victorian courtship. Luckily for him, Sellers’s policy of indiscriminate approach netted him as many yeses as nos; it was easy, he’d told Charlie a few months ago, once you’d worked out how to identify desperation in strangers.

Nice.

“Show her,” said Gibbs.

Sellers picked up the remote control. Charlie leaned against the wall at the back of the room. “What am I looking at?” she asked. “I mean, traffic, obviously, but . . .”

“See the silver Audi?” said Gibbs. “This is from the camera on the corner of Elmhirst Road and Lupton Road. Here’s our silver Audi traveling north on Lupton . . . and turning into Elmhirst at ten fifty-five this morning.”

“And here . . .” Sellers pressed the fast-forward button, held it down for a few seconds. “Same silver Audi coming back less than five minutes later. Looks like a woman behind the wheel—so why did she change her mind and double back on herself?”

“Maybe she didn’t,” said Charlie. “Maybe she stuck a birthday card through a letterbox at the Lupton Road end of Elmhirst Road, then did a U-ey and headed back home. Or, if she was planning to drive all the way along Elmhirst and subsequently changed her mind . . . well, there could be any number of reasons.”

“If it was a one-off, I’d agree,” Sellers said. He stood up, took the tape out, slotted another one in. While he fiddled with the remote control, Gibbs filled Charlie in on the background. “Damon Blundy’s house is on Elmhirst Road. He was found dead by his wife at ten thirty A.M. She called it in at ten thirty-five. Uniforms were there within minutes, stopping drivers on the Blundy-house side of the road for on-the-spot interviews.”

“Quick work,” said Charlie.

“Simon’s idea,” Gibbs told her. “I’m guessing you’ve heard about the, er, unusual crime scene.”

“Yeah, I spoke to Simon at lunchtime. It sounds . . . weirder than usual. Even than usual-for-you-lot.”